


Agents! of! SHIELD!

by Eligh



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Secret Avengers, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Deleted Scenes, M/M, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-28 05:21:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2720195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eligh/pseuds/Eligh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil's pretty certain that he is not handling the aftermath of his latest battle all that well. Nick's a meddling dick. Clint's here to help, in whatever way he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Agents! of! SHIELD!

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for _Secret Avengers_ (2014) 1 &2\. This probably won't make a ton of sense if you don't read the series... sorry. (Guys, read the series, it is great.) 
> 
> This takes place a few hours after the events of #2, and a few minutes before we pick up with #3. 
> 
> Gosh, I love comics.

Phil was sitting at his desk, his head in his hands, his paperwork from that clusterfuck of a space travesty half-completed in an uneven pile in front of him.

He took a deep breath.

That mission was over; he was home now, both feet back on Earth, breathing naturally-occurring air, safe. He was dressed in his usual familiar and comforting suit and tie, not that claustrophobic space condom, or even his tac gear, which—while useful—wasn’t his favorite uniform.

And he was an agent of SHIELD, for fuck’s sake. He needed to keep it together. He was fine.

Didn’t change the fact that he _hadn’t_ been.

Because just six hours or so ago, he’d come within a hairsbreadth of certain death on a freaking _space station_ , and then had almost condemned himself and his best friend to a painful demise when he sorta accidentally blew them _out of_ the aforementioned space station. Admittedly, his actions had neutralized the issue of the Fury trying to kill them, but what kind of choice were they given in the aftermath? Burn to death in the planet’s atmosphere, or suffocate in a vacuum?

He took another slow breath.

And hell, he’d been in _space_. He’d been _floating_ in space. He’d been floating _untethered_ in space. He’d been floating untethered in space and ready to _die_. He’d been _ready_ , was the thing, and now that he was back on Earth, he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with that. The peace he’d made in the black certainly hadn’t followed him home.  

The quiet knock on his office door jolted him from his downward spiral of agonizing thought and he sucked in a sharp breath, sat up, and tightened his tie. As an afterthought, he picked up his report, shuffled the papers into order, and then promptly lost a few seconds just staring at the scrawl of his handwriting, barely legible as it was. He should really type these and not handwrite them.

The knock repeated itself. He dropped the papers into the trash.

“Yeah,” Phil said, leaning forward in his chair, steepling his fingers. Project competence.  He was Phillip mother-fucking Coulson. And he was fine.

The door nudged open hesitantly and then Clint stuck his head in, his stupid obnoxious handsome stupid face screwed up in an apologetic grimace.

“Hey, Phil.”

Phil slumped slightly in his chair, dropping his hands to his lap and his glower from his face. He didn’t need to try to intimidate Hawkeye; posturing all went over his head, anyway. “Clint. Did you need something?”

Clint held up a single finger, opened his mouth, and then said absolutely nothing. Hawkeye, ladies and gentlemen: a paragon of wit and action.

Phil sighed. “ _Clint_.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Clint mumbled, and took a step in, nudged the door shut behind him with his foot, and then flopped into Phil’s one visitor chair. It was uncomfortable, Phil knew. It was designed that way. Discouraged loitering.

“So.” Clint cleared his throat and looked everywhere except at Phil for several uncomfortable moments, clearly bracing himself for something. He let out a huff of awkward laughter. “Secret Avengers, huh? I mean, I knew SHIELD wasn’t really looking to renew my contract for that team, ‘cause I know I cause problems, but Maria’s sorta implying that since I’ve managed to involve myself anyway, I guess I’m gonna be on the team whether I want to or not? Though I’m not sure if I believe that or whatever, since both Nat and Jess are on the team and we’re not exactly on the best terms right now? And also, since when are you all field-active? Not that you can’t handle yourself, um, I mean, but weren’t you always more of the running-things kinda person and less of the space-battle-ing, um, thing?”

Phil spent a moment parsing the verbal diarrhea. “ _Maria_ runs things,” he settled on telling Clint, dry as a desert. “Hence her title as ‘Director.’ I’m just an agent.”

Clint waved him off. “Well, obvs. But you’ve always been more… string-pulling-ish than on the ground.” He pantomimed marionette strings and then pouted when Phil narrowed his eyes, unimpressed.

‘Obvs?’ Jesus Christ, the man was in his thirties. Deep breaths, despite the fact that Clint was perfectly correct, if a little crass and juvenile in his delivery. “You’re spending too much time around Miss Bishop.”

Clint sighed and hitched himself sideways in the back-wrecking chair. Phil smirked. Good luck finding a comfortable position. “Yeah, I know,” Clint complained good-naturedly. He did most everything good-naturedly. It was aggravating. “She’s annoying. Too smug for her own good. But my dog likes her.” He paused, smiling, and then cocked his head at Phil, recognition sparking in his eyes. “You changed the subject, you sneaky fuck.”

Phil smirked despite himself. “I’m a spy, Clint. It’s what I do. I wouldn’t be half as useful if I wasn’t able to redirect a conversation to a subject of my choosing.” Clint flipped him off for this, grinning wide and honest and amused, and Phil’s own smile grew in response. Clint was a jackass, to be sure, but he was an entertaining jackass.

Feeling a bit more at ease than he had since he’d touched down back on Earth, Phil leaned forward again. “So, you needed something?”

There was a pause while Clint shifted in the chair again, and then: “Nah. Not really.” He leaned down and scratched his leg. “How you doin’? Ya know. With your spacewalk and all.”

Ah. Phil frowned, his hackles rising defensively. He should have seen this coming. “Maria send you? Or Nick?”

Clint immediately looked offended. “No. I mean, shit, Phil. I’ve been through some… I mean, space isn’t _my_ favorite place. And an experience like yours, fightin’ the Fury, and then freefall, and then—”

“Stop.” Phil didn’t need to hear it played out, believe him.

Clint froze, his mouth still open. “Sorry,” he said eventually. “Just. I wanted to make sure you’re okay.” He leaned forward. “We’re friends, Phil, yeah?” He looked irrationally worried about this question, as if anyone in the entire damn world could manage to know Clint—the real Clint—and not like him. Supervillians excepted, of course. Even his exes still liked him.

Jackass. Meddling annoying well-meaning jackass. Phil slumped in his chair again. He didn’t want to have any part of this conversation. “Of course we’re friends.”

Clint nodded, the apprehension of his expression shifting seamlessly into one that was more pleased. “Good. And friends worry about each other, ‘specially when one of them just had a really fuckin’ traumatic experience with a murder-bot and barely survived.”

At Phil’s annoyed expression, he held up his hands in surrender, though he kept talking. “I’m not gonna stop saying it, ‘cause it happened. _Shit_ happens, Phil. That’s what deep field work is, and yeah, I totally lied earlier ‘cause I talked to Nick and he told me that you requested more action, and then space happened, and so he told me to come talk to you.” He dropped his hands, scratched his chin, and winced when he hit a bruise. “Said something about me helping you with stress relief.”

Phil snorted, taken off-guard. “He said that?” Well, this little encounter had certainly taken a sharp left turn. Well. He supposed he could see how it went, though he had a sneaking suspicion that Nick was just fucking with him. He knew he never should have let the fact that he found Clint attractive slip the last time they were playing poker. And anyway, he doubted very much that Clint was interested in _that_ sort of thing. So: redirect. “What happened to your face?”

Clint looked surprised, and it took him a second to catch up. “Huh?” He touched his bruises absently, brushing over the bandage on his broken nose. “Oh. Um. AIM?”

Phil remained silent, choosing instead to tap his fingers on his desk and radiate disbelief. Clint’s confrontation with AIM—and subsequent catapult into SA business—happened not even twelve hours ago, and many of those bruises were several days old.

Clint rolled his eyes. “I know your tricks, Coulson,” he pointed out, but then sighed and admitted—absolutely zilch. “Nothing much. No big deal, really, just a disagreement with the guys that owned my building. I’ve got it handled. The AIM bit’s true, though. They re-broke my freakin’ nose.” He sighed. “Man, it’s like the sixth time this year.”

Right. _That_ was believable. Not the nose thing; Phil couldn’t really remember a time when Clint didn’t have bandages on his face, but rather the _disagreements_ thing. Disagreements his ass. Phil inclined an eyebrow, and Clint glanced away before hastily changed the subject. This guy. _Toddlers_ were smoother than this guy.  

Clint kicked his feet up on Phil’s desk (Phil glared) and then immediately winced at the angle that put him in the chair and dropped his legs back down. “So! Stress relief. What do you do to unwind? Board games? I’m a shark a Clue, I warn you. Bad movies? I’m a fan of MST3K. Or, uh, pool, you like pool? I could shoot one-handed, that could even us up. Or, you a beer kinda man? No, you know, I bet it’s scotch. You do scotch, don’t cha?”

Phil blinked. “Scotch is all right,” he allowed. He was willing to drop the subject of Clint’s mysterious apartment-building politics for now. He could take a hint, and Clint clearly didn’t want to talk about it. “Though I don’t believe playing board games or pool, or watching movies, is what Nick was implying when he sent you here.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, but not before giving Clint a pointed once-over.

His implication was against protocol. Fuck protocol. He’d just almost died in _space_ , he was allowed some leeway.

Phil’s indirect statement was greeted by several seconds of confused stare, but then he was rewarded by practically seeing the light bulb flick on over Clint’s head.

“Ohhhhhh,” Clint said, cocking his head and sitting forward in his chair. “Well, shit.” And then, more enthusiastically: “Okay.”

Phil’s eyebrow jumped again. “Wait. _Okay_?”

Clint stood up. “You single, man?” When Phil nodded slowly, he shrugged. “Then it’s all good. You could probably use a good lay, I’m newly divorced—” Good to know, Phil supposed. He hadn’t known the paperwork had gone through. “—so what the hell’s holding us back?” There was a clatter as Clint’s quiver hit the floor, and the rattle-swish of a belt jerked through belt loops, and then a rustle as Clint’s shirt lifted away from his stomach, and chest, and shoulders, and, and, and… well then.

This was… slightly unexpected. Not unwanted—Phil had _eyes_ , and Clint was… whew—but he’d never so much as caught him flirting with any men, though now that he thought about it, Clint’s relationship with Wade Wilson was awfully strange, and sweet lord, his _abs_. Stomachs like that should be labeled weapons of mass destruction. And that was nothing when compared to his arms, and oh, look, he was unzipping his fly, and Phil might have been experiencing a bit of a short-circuit right now.

“Come on,” Clint said, reaching out in offering, and with a wide, easy smile firmly in place. “Let’s blow off some steam.” All in a bit of a daze, Phil grasped hold of Clint’s hand, let Clint drag him to his feet, steer him around the desk, and lean him against the front of it. It took roughly three seconds, and Phil couldn’t remember the last time he’d been manhandled like that.

It was beyond hot.

On the wake of that thought, Phil then spent several moments staring down at the play of muscles under the skin of Clint’s chest and stomach. It was mesmerizing. And when he finally looked up, Clint was staring at him with wide, dilated blue eyes.

“You can touch,” he whispered.

Phil did.

He dragged his fingers up, starting from the elastic at the top of Clint’s boxers—purple, and patterned with little chevrons, the dork—slow through the fine trail of hair beneath his bellybutton, glacial over the flat muscle of his belly, leisurely up his chest and over the dark nipples that pebbled under his touch, deliberate along his shoulders and the strong line of his trapezius, unhurried up his neck—which he arched prettily at Phil’s exploration—and ending with a gentle cupping of his jaw with one hand, the other latched into the short hair at the back of Clint’s head.

Clint was breathing heavily. “You gonna,” he began, and Phil silenced him with a miniscule jerk of his head. Clint swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and licked his lips.

Phil needed this. Hadn’t known he needed this, but _fuck_ if it wasn’t exactly what the doctor ordered.

“I want you to suck my cock,” he informed Clint, who’s breathing kicked up another notch. He nodded erratically, eager, and Phil almost let him sink to his knees before he rethought that and tightened his grip in Clint’s hair. Clint paused, clearly confused, his eyes flicking between Phil’s face and down to the bulge growing in his trousers.

Phil didn’t feel the need to explain, not right now. He was being a little more domm-y than usual, but he knew what this was: a quick fumble in the afternoon at the office, an affirmation of continued existence, a one-time assignation between friends.

And since this was probably the only time this would happen, he wanted to taste Clint first. Taste what his mouth was like when he was nervous and turned on and hadn’t yet had a chance to wrap it around anything else.

He pulled Clint closer, angling their heads, his hand guiding Clint’s into the proper position. Clint let out a little ‘oh’ of understanding as he reached up and settled his hands on the points of Phil’s hips.

He kissed like it was his job, like he’d never picked up a bow and made money shooting at people, like he wasn’t a government agent and occasional superhero, like he wasn’t a confrontational doofus who accidentally ended up in brawls once a week.  Clint touched him like he made his living kissing men breathless, his lips parted and wet and giving, his tongue active but not overwhelming, his eyes closed, his fingers flexing unconsciously on Phil’s hip.

And then when they pulled apart, Clint blinked up at him through his eyelashes, his gaze hooded and promising. “Wow, Phil.”

“I’m not a blushing virgin, Clint,” Phil mumbled, trying to regain some composure. Of course, Clint promptly shattered any illusion that Phil was in control by smirking and dropping to his knees.

“Oh, Agent Coulson,” he said, heavy on the sarcasm in the title, “please let me suck you, sir. Tell me I’ve been good, sir. Reward me, sir.” He smirked. “Or punish me. Whichever.”

“ _Clint_ ,” Phil growled, in no mood to tease, and Clint leant forward to better rub his face all over the front of Phil’s pants.

Jesus, he wasn’t even unzipped yet.

Clint rectified that in short order, unzipping and unbuttoning and shoving down Phil’s pants and briefs in one go, and then he was wrapping one large, calloused hand around the base of Phil’s dick, and giving him a few rough strokes while he licked at the tip. Phil locked his knees as Clint opened his mouth to a perfect ‘O’ and suckled in just the head.

Phil, to be perfectly honest, whined.

Clint laughed, because he was a bastard. And then he bobbed down his head, sucking hard and fast, getting Phil’s dick filthy with spit and precome and it felt so. damn. good. and all of Phil’s awareness abruptly centered on the man kneeling before him on the floor of his office, his hands and mouth sinful and perfect.

There was nothing but Clint.

There was no Fury trying its damnedest to kill both him and Nick. There was no explosion on the station, no terrifying fall toward Earth, no last-minute rescue.

“Oh,” Phil breathed, and Clint reached up, grabbing at his hands and depositing them firmly on his head. He then pushed his way down Phil’s cock, the very tip of his nose brushing low on Phil’s belly, his throat relaxed to take as much as possible. There was a pause and he pulled back, took a breath, and did it again; another pause, and then again but deeper. Phil could feel the ridges in Clint’s throat tightening reflexively on the head of his dick.

Clint tugged on his hip, and Phil, who is very good at situational awareness, got the point.

He flexed his hips experimentally, sliding back and then pushing back in, holding Clint’s head in place as he started to slowly fuck his mouth. He watched, unbearably aroused, as Clint’s eyes rolled up in pleasure before fluttering shut. Phil settled into a rhythm, doling out short, gentle thrusts, gaining slowly in speed if not in pressure. Clint groaned low in his chest, and the vibrations rumbled through his mouth and onto Phil’s cock.

Phil whined again. He couldn’t remember a time he’d been this hard. The leftover adrenaline from the mission swimming through his blood; the rush of this illicit tryst; the fact that it was _Clint_ on his knees in front of him, who’d never even been on Phil’s radar as someone attainable. It all coalesced into a tight ball of heat and desire and pure fucking lust.

Clint throat undulated as he swallowed around the head of his dick, and Phil came.

“Ohgod, aah,” he cried out, curling down unconsciously over Clint’s head, his hands tight in his hair, his cock buried as deep as it could go down Clint’s throat. Clint’s nose was mashed into his belly, and he was, what—

Phil pulled away, apologetic of that little, uh, inadvertent choking, and Clint inhaled deep. The exhale, however, was simply a light laugh. His lips were flushed and red and ruined, and Phil stared down for a moment, utterly dazed. He reached out and dragged a thumb over Clint’s bottom lip. His mouth was open and he was panting.

“Clint,” Phil began, and looked down. Clint’s dick was hanging limply from his fly, and there was a small puddle of come on the floor. “Oh. I was going to—”

“Yeah,” Clint sighed, before using Phil as a ladder to haul himself to his feet. He’d apparently caught his breath, though he had to clear his throat before he went on, and he still sounded wrecked. “No, I know. No worries, man.” He winked and tucked himself away. “Give me a couple hours, you could return the favor.”

Phil snorted and squashed down a traitorous surge of renewed want. Proceed with caution. “Maybe,” he said slowly. “We probably shouldn’t get overly involved, not if we’re planning on working well together.”

Clint grinned easily. “Somehow I doubt Maria’s gonna keep me around for this particular strike team. I’m troubled, remember?”

“Yes, well…” Phil frowned. He wasn’t actually sure how he would feel about this outside this surge of endorphin. He really did make a point not to get involved with teammates, but having Clint around had always been nice, and fun. It might be doubly nice, actually, if regular sex was involved. “You never know,” he settled on saying. “You’re a useful man, Clint.” He glanced away, and began righting his clothes, but he could feel Clint’s eyes boring into the side of his head.

The feeling of being stared at disappeared after a moment and when Phil looked around, Clint was gathering up his shirt from the floor. He appeared utterly at ease, and was smiling a little to himself.

They spent the next couple minutes righting clothes and smoothing down their hair, and when Phil’s office phone rang, they were almost entirely presentable. The annoying buzz of sound from his desk served to effectively jerk Phil out of the lingering sex daze and back down to the ground, and he answered it absently, half-wishing the glow could have lasted another ten minutes. “Coulson speaking.” He watched as Clint shrugged back into his shirt, tucking it in before buckling his belt. He slung his abandoned quiver over his hip and tightened a few buckles.

“ _Phil, meeting in lab 34-C. Bring Barton if he’s still with you._ ”

“He is,” he affirmed. Maria sounded all-business at the moment. He eyed the paperwork he’d thrown out earlier. She probably wanted his report.

“ _All right. Be there in five._ ” She hung up. Business as usual, then. Phil dropped the receiver back into its cradle on his desk.

“Maria wants us for debrief. I guess that means you’re on the team.” He hesitated. “Maybe we should—”

“Keep this on the down-low, please.” Clint looked a little panicked suddenly. “Um. ‘Cause Nat and Jess... jeez, they’d never let me hear the end of it.”

“Need to know only,” Phil affirmed. “We’re the only ones that need to know.” He tugged on his jacket a final time, fastidiously straightening the lapels, and generally brushed himself down. He hoped it was enough to hide the fact that he’d just gotten laid. And it was as he was vaguely wondering if he smelled like sex when Clint stepped into his space, a small smile twitching on his lips.

“Here,” he offered, and ran his fingers down Phil’s tie, tightening the knot carefully and aligning it correctly. And then he leaned in and dropped a light kiss on Phil’s lips, a catch and drag of their mouths, a promise for something more.

“Right,” he said, stepping back and shooting Phil a grin. He stuck his hands in his pockets, and Phil very nearly had to do the same so he wouldn’t grab him back. They stared at one another for a long moment, which Clint then broke by pulling one hand free of his pocket, clutching a protein bar. He immediately unwrapped it and took a large bite.  “Goo’ s’uff.”

Phil sighed, very effectively distracted from his memories of explosions in the cold vacuum of space. They had a job to do.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Right, so I'm gonna be optimistic and start a series. It should follow along with the events in the current _SA_ title, deleted-scenes-slashification-style. I've got an idea for another installment, though after that I'll have to wait at least a month to see how things play out in the books. 
> 
> I'm also functioning under the assumption that _SA_ is in the same timeline/universe as _Hawkeye_ , given the similar writing styles and art.


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